


This Turbulent Priest

by poisonivory



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-08
Updated: 2017-08-08
Packaged: 2018-12-12 15:11:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11739639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poisonivory/pseuds/poisonivory
Summary: Conflicted about the direction of his legal career, Foggy Nelson gets some advice from an unexpected source.





	This Turbulent Priest

**Author's Note:**

> For the "In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti" square on my Daredevil Bingo card. I don't know where Matt went to school in this AU, but it apparently wasn't Columbia.

Franklin Nelson shoved his hands deeper into his pockets as he made his way down Tenth Avenue. It was quiet out here, far from Broadway, the autumn night chilly from the breeze coming off the river. He’d forgotten how quiet it could get here, even in the bustle of Midtown. It had been too long since he’d been home.

He let his feet travel the old familiar paths without paying much attention to where they were taking him. So much about the old neighborhood had changed, new construction replacing the damage done by the Incident. Or maybe it was Franklin who had changed, because even the older buildings looked smaller than they used to. Shabbier. Derelict.

He had what he’d always wanted, he reminded himself. He’d gotten out. He’d helped his parents get out. He’d succeeded.

Still, the night was cold.

A shadow passed overhead and Franklin found himself flinching and looking up. The news reports had to be exaggerated. A crazy vigilante prowling his old neighborhood? The very idea was ridiculous.

And yet, it proved that he’d been right to get out, didn’t it? If things had gotten so dangerous that people were making up stories about a Devil of Hell’s Kitchen…

He turned a familiar corner and found himself staring up at a small, shabby church. Lord, but it had been a while. He hadn’t been in Hell’s Kitchen much since getting into Columbia, but it had been even longer since he’d gone to church regularly. His mother had been the religious one, but after her beloved father - Franklin’s namesake - had died when Franklin was ten, she’d lost interest in it. The Nelson family’s attendance at mass had been desultory at best ever since.

Franklin had never really felt the loss, but now he felt himself walking up the steps and trying the door. He knew he was being ridiculous - it was after midnight on a Thursday, there was no way it would be open…

The knob turned under his hand.

Franklin stepped in, feeling a bit like he was about to be struck by lightning, or at least scolded by a nun. Was the church still open, or had they just forgotten to lock the door?

“Hello?” he called. His voice echoed eerily under the vaulted ceiling.

There was a muffled crash, and he jumped. “Uh, is someone there?” he called. “...God?”

He heard some distant shuffling, and then a dark-haired man came scrambling out of a small room in the back, adjusting his cassock as he closed the door behind him. “Sorry, no, it’s just me,” he said, sounding amused.

Franklin felt his cheeks heat up. “Oh! Uh, sorry, Father. I, uh, wasn’t sure if you were still open to a poor, weary sinner.” He tried to make that last bit jovial, but had a feeling the “weary” part, at least, came through pretty clearly.

“We’re not,” the priest said apologetically, coming closer. “I must have, uh, forgotten to lock the door.”

It hardly needed to be said. There were no lights on in the church except for the dim red glow of the legally-mandated exit sign behind Franklin. Between that and the streetlight just outside the transom, though, Franklin could see the priest pretty well. He was younger than Franklin would have expected a priest to be, probably about Franklin’s age, with bird’s nest of fluffy dark hair, soft eyes that were gazing at something over Franklin’s shoulder, and a perfectly sculpted red mouth.

Franklin’s cheeks went hot again. What was wrong with him? He shouldn’t be noticing a priest’s mouth.

“Sorry,” he said again, even though the priest couldn’t possibly know what direction his thoughts had just gone in. “I used to come to this church as a kid, and I just wanted to...uh…” Wanted to what? Pray? He hadn’t even done that as a child.

“Right,” the priest said, even though Franklin hadn’t said anything coherent. “Well. We’ll be open at, um, eight, or...uh, _definitely_ by nine tomorrow. My son,” he added, almost as an afterthought.

“Oh,” Franklin said. He knew he wouldn’t come back tomorrow. “Yes, of course. I’ll just…” He jerked his thumb towards the door. “Sorry to bother you.”

He turned to leave. Behind him, he heard something that sounded a lot like - but couldn’t possibly be - a priest whispering “ _Shit_.”

“Wait,” the priest said. “You seem...that is, coming to a church in the middle of the night is generally something people only do when they’re particularly troubled by something.”

Franklin turned back around. “Or suffering from insomnia.”

That perfect mouth curved up in a half-smile. “Are you an insomniac?”

“No,” Franklin admitted.

“Do you want to…” The priest made a vague gesture towards the nave. “Pray? Or tell me what’s on your mind?”

Franklin hedged. “I don’t want to keep you after hours, Father…”

“Matthew,” the priest said abruptly, and then bit his lip, looking slightly alarmed. “Uh. I mean. Yes. It’s no trouble at all. Uh, my son.” He made another awkward gesture. “Do you want to sit?”

Franklin hid a smile as he took a seat in one of the rear-most pews. Father Matthew must be just out of seminary school - it would explain why he seemed so discombobulated, and why he’d gotten stuck with the night shift. “You’re sure you don’t mind?” he asked.

“That’s why I do what I do,” Father Matthew said, a little distantly. “To help people.”

He walked forward with his hand in front of him until it bumped the back of the pew, then kept a steady grip on it as he eased into a seat next to Franklin. Franklin put the careful way he moved together with the soft unfocusedness of his gaze and felt colossally stupid.

“Oh! You’re blind!” he said, and felt even stupider.

But Father Matthew’s smile just widened. “Yeah, so they tell me. I hope that won’t be a problem?”

“No, why would it?” Franklin asked.

Father Matthew’s smile turned rueful. “You’d be surprised,” he said. “But we were talking about you, Mr…?”

Franklin heard the cue, but he was distracted, chasing down a wisp of memory. “Matthew...there was a boy...are you from here? Hell’s Kitchen, I mean?”

“Born and raised.”

“You’re Matt Murdock!” Franklin crowed triumphantly. “I remember reading about you as a kid, saving that old dude.” Father Matthew looked startled, then gave a modest shrug. “I guess you’re still a do-gooder, huh?”

Father Matthew blinked. “Uh, I...what do you mean, a do-gooder?”

“Well, you’re a priest.”

“I’m - oh! Yes. Yes.” Father Matthew laughed. His smile was adorably bashful. Up close he looked even more rumpled; there was even something black jammed into his pocket, probably whatever he’d been about to change into when Franklin walked in. “It’s, uh, it’s new.” He cleared his throat. “Anyway, you have the advantage on me now.”

“Oh, sorry. My name is Fr--.” He paused. “My name is Foggy.”

Father Matthew blinked. “I’m sorry?”

Foggy took a deep breath and nodded decisively. He’d been Franklin since law school, since he got tired of the laughter and snide comments, but the name had never sat right on his tongue. He was still Foggy at home, and Hell’s Kitchen was home, wasn’t it? “Sorry, I just nodded. Yeah, it’s a weird nickname, but it’s me. Foggy Nelson.”

He could live in the shadows of Father Matthew’s smile, he was pretty sure. “Nice to meet you, Foggy. Why don’t you tell me why you came here tonight?”

And Foggy told him.

He told him about how hard he’d worked to get into Columbia, to rise to the top of his class, to find a good job out of law school...and he told him how empty it all was. How every day was a war of snipes and jabs and infighting with the other associates, preening and posturing in front of the partners. How their clients were all rich douchebags who used their money to do whatever they wanted and used their lawyers to sweep it all under the rug. About the old man who’d died of the cancer Foggy had helped his firm argue hadn’t been caused by their client, and the sweet little old lady he was currently helping to strongarm out of her rent-controlled apartment.

He hadn’t told anyone how he was feeling about his job. Marci hadn’t wanted to hear about it, back when they were still talking, and his family...they were so proud that he’d made something of himself. He couldn’t bear to admit to them just what that something was.

But sitting there in the dark, with Father Matthew breathing softly beside him, it all poured out of him: the shame and the guilt and the frustration. This wasn’t what he went into law to do.

“I’m sorry,” he said finally when he was talked out. “I’ve been whining forever and it’s not even a proper confession.”

Father Matthew shook his head. He’d been an excellent audience - patient, attentive, with little hums of acknowledgement or small murmurs of outrage. Foggy wished he’d had a better story to tell him.

“I’m not the one you need to apologize to,” he said.

Foggy hung his head. A minute later he felt a warm hand on his knee. The back of his neck prickled with heat.

“I understand, Foggy,” Father Matthew said. “I know how hard it can be to defy society’s expectations and do the right thing. Or to disregard a parent’s wishes.” He looked troubled, briefly; then the expression flickered away, replaced with something that was just intent and pleading. “But I believe we’re put on this Earth to do good to the best of our abilities, and to help one another. I think you believe that, too.”

“See, this is why people don’t go to church,” Foggy joked weakly. “You priests are way too perceptive.”

Father Matthew flashed that radiant smile at him, then grew serious again. “If you know what you have to do, _you have to do it_ , Foggy. You didn’t need me to tell you that.”

“You’re right,” Foggy admitted. “Maybe...maybe I just needed a little courage.”

“Well, I’ve been called fearless,” Father Matthew said with a quirk of his lips. “I can lend you some courage, if you want.”

Foggy wanted a lot more than that, but that was a hopeless thought, so he disregarded it. “That’d be great. And don’t worry, I’ll pay it back. I’m good for it.”

Father Matthew squeezed his knee and Foggy’s blood pressure spiked. The priest’s hand was surprisingly strong, the knuckles red and scraped. “I know you are.” He stood up. “Now, it _is_ late, so we should probably…”

“Right,” Foggy said, jumping to his feet. “I’m sorry to have kept you so long, but you’ve been so helpful, Father, really.”

Father Matthew smiled again, and if Foggy swooned a little, well, no one had to know it but him. “It was my pleasure. Good night, Foggy.”

*

The next afternoon, newly unemployed, Foggy strolled down Tenth Avenue again. His heart felt lighter than it had twenty-four hours ago - than it had in ages, really - and though he knew his pockets would soon be lighter too, it was early enough that panic hadn’t set in yet.

And how could anyone be worried on a day like this, anyway? The sun was shining, the air was crisp and fresh. Everyone he passed seemed to be smiling. Even the news this morning had been cheerful; some kidnapping victims had been found and rescued last night, although there were rumors that the ridiculous Devil of Hell’s Kitchen guy had been caught up in it and the cops had failed to catch him yet again. Foggy didn’t blame them - it was hard to catch someone who didn’t exist.

Anyway, Foggy planned to start his newfound free time off right.

_I wanted to return that courage you lent me. I got some great use out of it_ , he’d say if Father Matthew was there, and watch for that smile. Maybe even invite him out for a cup of coffee - a completely platonic and pious one, of course. He knew he was being an idiot, but this seemed to be the day for it.

But a different priest was sweeping fallen leaves off the sidewalk in front of the church, an older one. Foggy drew to a halt in front of him.

“Good morning, my son,” the priest said, stilling his broom. “What can I do for you?”

“Good morning, Father,” Foggy said. “I was wondering if you could tell me if Father Matthew’s around, or when he might be in?”

The priest frowned. “Father Matthew?”

“I wanted to thank him for some advice he gave me,” Foggy explained.

“Well, that’s very conscientious of you, but...there’s no Father Matthew here,” the priest said.

Foggy blinked. “The priest who was here last night. The blind one?”

The priest shook his head. “I’m sorry, but I think you’re confused. We don’t have a blind priest.”

Foggy felt utterly baffled, but it was clear he wasn’t going to get any further with this guy. “Uh...sorry, you’re right. I must be confused,” he said, and walked away.

Had he dreamed it all? No, he couldn’t have imagined it. He _had_ come to the church last night, and he _had_ met Father Matthew, and it _had_ inspired him to turn his life around. He was certain of it.

He stopped in the bodega on the corner. The guy behind the counter was somehow dozing despite the TV blaring the news over his head, and Foggy gently reached over and prodded him awake so that he could order a jumbo cup of coffee. Maybe some caffeine would help clear his head.

While the bodega guy sleepily filled his cup and spooned way too much sugar into it, Foggy raked a hand through his hair, trying to sort out his scrambled thoughts. The uppermost one was the dumbest one, so dumb Foggy barely wanted to touch it, but there it was: _what if Father Matthew had been an angel?_

No, he was being ridiculous. He dug out his wallet and paid the bodega guy, picked up his coffee, and turned to leave.

“ - phone footage shows what its owner claims is the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen fleeing last night’s crime scene just after midnight,” the anchorwoman on the TV declared. “Despite searching for several hours, police were unable to find the vigilante. Sources say he may have gone to ground somewhere nearby.” Foggy turned back to see grainy footage of a lithe figure all in black scrambling up a fire escape and over a roof. The spire of the little church was visible in the background.

Foggy startled so badly he spilled coffee all over his hand. Swearing, he swiped at it with the tiny napkin the bodega guy had given him. His mind wasn’t on the pain, though, but on a rumpled cassock and messy hair, like the cassock had just been yanked on; on black fabric jammed into a pocket; on scraped knuckles and a strong hand.

_That’s why I do what I do. To help people._

_If you know what you have to do, you have to do it._

Not an angel, then, but a devil.

“...You buying something else or what?” the bodega guy asked, and Foggy shook out of his daze.

“No. Sorry,” he said, and walked out of the bodega.

It was ludicrous. It was impossible. Foggy was just loopy from adrenalin and lack of sleep, and it was making him imagine things.

Still, maybe there was something to this vigilante business after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Matt u sneak.
> 
> Come say hi [on tumblr](http://pluckyredhead.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
